The Life and Times of Sherlock Holmes
by Hugo Reed
Summary: My take on the life of the world's ONLY consulting detective.
1. Chapter 1

The Life and Times of Sherlock Holmes:  
By: Hugo Reed

Chapter 1:

Mycroft Holmes was four years old when he first heard his parent fight. It had been over mother going somewhere that she shouldn't, and it had gone on for hours. Eventually, of course, she apologized and promised never to do it again, and then things would go back to normal. However, in only a few months something would happen and they would fight again. This went on for years.

At seven, Mycroft was already intellegant compared to others his age. Most seven-year-olds were just considered old enough to understand the conseqenses of their actions. Mycroft understood people and power better than most high school students. He knew how people responded to a "cute little kid" and knew how to use it to his advantage.

He attended a school for the gifted, and made sure all his teachers loved him. He could see after only a few quick sentences how easy it could be to bend them, just a little, to his will. He always got whatever he wanted... almost whatever he wanted. His father, a scientist, was plenty rich to get him any gift he'd put his eye on. He'd been given the finest foods and the best clothes. However, he never had friends.

Oh sure, many people wanted to hang out with him because they admired his house or riches, but few ever wanted to know Mycroft intimately. They wanted to like him, and so they'd listen. They wanted him to be clever, and so they'd listen. They did not want to know him, not through-and-through.

It was living in this way he'd learned to listen for _everything._ He learned that nothing was said by accident. If someone shouted something in anger, they meant it, no matter what was said later. So he reasoned when he heard his parents arguing.

It was father's voice that rang first, he naturally being the louder of the two.

"How can you even pretend that it's mine?"

Now mother responded.

"Who else could he be, of course he's your's!"

Interesting, their fighting. Mycroft knew that most people tried to block out fighting, but he didn't understand why. Emotions were such trying things. They couldn't just approach the problem logically. It wasn't as if a simple DNA test wouldn't solve the problem. Why get all worked up over it?

But they had gotten worked up. Ever since mother had brought home the infant, Sherlock. He lay in his crib, looking at Mycroft even now. Mycroft thought that babies were supposed to cry, but Sherlock didn't, hardly ever made any noise. He just watched.

"Why do you watch?" Mycroft asked the infant. "You can't really understand it all can you?"

The shouting continued and Sherlock glanced in the direction of the voices.

"I know," Mycroft said. "Silly isn't it, this fighting thing?"

Sherlock looked at him, and tilted his head, trying to understand him.

"I suppose we'll have to watch each other, when they're like this. Mother might be trying to make up to father for some time."

Sherlock turned towards his pacifer and made a soft cooing noise, asking for it. Mycroft gave his brother the device and soon, the infant was asleep. The shouting soon subsided into "I'm sorry" and "Please forgive me" just as it always did. They did really seem to want to make something work this time though. Mycroft gave it a year, at the most.

People were so boringly predicatable.


	2. Chapter 2

The Life and Times of Sherlock Holmes:  
By: Hugo Reed

Chapter 2:

It had been three and a half years since mother had been able to bring Sherlock home. Mycroft had grown far beyond most his age and his father realized it. Often he would bring his older son to meet powerful people of infulence. Mycroft loved it.

Even as young as he was, Mycroft knew he was brilliant compared to most other people, even the average adult. He also knew he wasn't... normal. He could see things that seem obvious to him, yet others would miss entirely. He could tell from a man's face what he was focused on and what made him important.

Often, he'd stun father's guests with his "memory" of their work, no matter how small. The truth was he could see their job just from looking at them and making a few small logical connections. The feat was hardly impressive, but father was always amazed and it made him all the more determined to groom Mycroft into the perfect man.

When Mycroft wasn't busy skipping grades in school, or meeting important people, he watched over his little brother. Like Mycroft, Sherlock had something wrong with him. However, no one knew quite what it was with Sherlock. As a child, everyone had liked Mycroft, but the maid seemed scared of Sherlock. He never cried, didn't speak, and barely slept or ate. He un-nerved most, but not Mycroft.

Mycroft liked to think that even at his young age, his brother was analyzing people, just like he did. The trouble was, when Mycroft watched his brother, father wasn't distracted from his disgust of mother. He still loved her, of course, but he hated her habits and ways. It was so illogical, all this emotional stuff. He picked up Sherlock and decided to help him walk around the room he was given to play in.

Neither parent really understood that Sherlock didn't play. After all, he was Mycroft's brother, and neither of the Holmes boys "played" anything. They lived, and analyzed. It was the only way that made sense. The only thing that concerned Mycroft slightly, was that Sherlock never spoke. Sure, most children didn't have conversation skills until about four or five, but Sherlock hadn't even said a single word yet.

"Why don't you speak?" Mycroft asked the child. "You do want to be understood, don't you?"

Sherlock turned to look quizically at his brother, as if to ask, "Understood by who?"

Mycroft sighed. Emotions could be such trying things. However, he knew he cared about his baby brother, in spite of the toddler's helplessness. At this moment, Sherlock reached towards the bookshelf, and cooed softly.

"You want me to read to you?" Mycroft asked, knowing the answer. "Alright, which book do you want?"

It was another question he already knew the answer to. Sherlock loved stories about pirates, always had. Luckily, Mycroft loved reading the books to him. Picking up an abused copy of _Treasure Island,_ Mycroft began to read to his brother.

Soon, Sherlock was drawn into the world of treasure, pirate ships, and danger. Mycroft was very good at reading aloud. He knew how to change his voice with each character, how to make his voice louder or softer to intensify the moment for the child. For hours, they stayed like that, Mycroft reading and Sherlock listening.

Finally, after two and half hours, he could hear father calling to him. They were going to dinner with someone. Probably the banker from up the street again. He slowly closed the book and began to put it away.

"Sorry brother," he said to Sherlock. "I have to go now. I'll be back later, alright?"

He turned and opened the door when he heard a small voice from behind him say, "Thank you."

He froze. There were two options, either he was insane: unlikely, or Sherlock had spoken his first words. Mycroft smiled.

"Anytime brother."

* * *

Dinner with father's guest was boring, as usual. However, Mycroft knew better than to let it show. He pretend to take deep personal interest in the mention of figures and oversea trades with the United States.

"It's amazing the intellect your son shows," the banker was saying. "Anytime he wants a position in the bank he's welcome with open arms."

"While your bank and it's work is certainly vital to all things," father said, trying to be polite. "I think Mycroft is lead more towards government, with his intellect and all."

Mycroft nodded in afformation. Father had always set Mycroft on the path for greatness, and in many ways, he pitied his baby brother for not being able to join him. However, father didn't care for Sherlock like he did the eldest son. It wasn't until many hours later that Mycroft returned to his brother's room to find him, still awake.

"I'm sorry I had to leave you."

"I don't think he's mad at you," said a voice and Mycroft spun.

"Sorry mother," he said, seeing her now. "I didn't realize you were there."

"I know," she said, looking over at Sherlock. "You do love your brother, don't you?"

Mycroft shrugged. He didn't know what to call it.

"I just know it falls to me to protect him until he can do it himself. Usually you and father are so busy, so he needs someone."

He knew he'd said the wrong thing by the look in her face. She wasn't mad at him, never had been. But, she always blamed herself for her boys poor upbringing. In a way, it was right, she was to blame, but he doubted she meant to cause the trouble. She was just an unforchunate, not a dark person.

She went over to Sherlock and kissed his forehead lightly.

"I know I've not been great to you boys, and I'm sorry for it," she said.

"Nonsense," Mycroft said, the classic response drilled into him.

Mother knew it too.

"Your father's brought you up well I see."

With those words she left to retire. Mycroft walked over to his baby brother and the reached both arms up to hug his brother. Mycroft thought hard about his assement that emotions were wasteful and illogical. He did care about Sherlock, but didn't know why. It bothered him not to know something.

Nevermind, it would all reveal itself to him... given time.

* * *

Five years had passed since the night that Sherlock had first spoken. At only sixteen, his brother Mycroft had graduated high school and going through his second year at the university. Mycroft had always been brilliant as father had said.

Sherlock was doing well in school as well. However, his skipping a few grades had an effect of the other children hating him. Mycroft had been large enough that this wasn't too much of a problem, and anyone else was scared of father. However, Sherlock wasn't sure father would protect _him_.

As a result Sherlock had been in more than a couple fights. He was small, but was just as strong as most of them, and much quicker. He didn't know why they should resent him for showing them up. If they were too stupid to keep up, why should they take it out on his intellect? People could be so stupid.

The teacher droned on endlessly about history. Sherlock took in the information and forgot it immediately. He'd remember what he had to, and nothing else. This sort of thing was all so boring. Why couldn't any of them teach something useful?

Oh sure, the science classes had been good, but it was all so basic. Why couldn't he learn more about the chemicals that the teacher mentioned? Mathematics wasn't too bad, but it was too specific, the formulas and such things were all so perfect that it wasn't worth learning beyond the basic premise. He could always just invent a formula to any real problem he'd find in the real world once he had the basics.

He'd complete his tests though, because maybe if he did what Mycroft had done, or better, father would finally take some pride in him. Of course, Sherlock already knew that wasn't actually true. He hadn't learned a lot about genetics yet, but he knew enough to understand that there were some dominate and submissive traits in the looks of a person.

He also knew that he and Mycroft looked very different. Mycroft was large and slightly stout. Sherlock was lanky and tall, even at his young age. Mycroft had blonde hair, and a strong jaw, whereas Sherlock's hair was dark with a thin face and high cheekbones. It was clear that they didn't share all the same genetics and so Sherlock had began connecting dots before realizing, at eight-and-a-half, that his father hated him because he was a literal bastard.

It didn't bother him as he thought it should. After all, most children were distraught to learn they were adopted, weren't they? Oh well, what did it really matter? He knew who he was, and that was the important part. The teacher suddenly decided to pick on him, because she knew he wasn't listening.

"Perhaps our genius Mr. Holmes can give us the answer?"

Sherlock glanced at the board and his mind slowed everything down and took snapshots for him.

"Vlad the Impaler," Sherlock answered. "Also known as Vlad III Prince of Wallachia. He was given his name because of his.."

"Alright," the teacher cut him off. "You've proven yourself yet again, Holmes."

"Of course," said Sherlock, not bothering to keep quiet. "We'll see if you ever do."

"Detention, Mr. Holmes!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. One day, something would interest him, he was sure. Little did he know that was coming at lunch that day.

There was the usual dull roar that day. Sherlock was not eating, and sitting alone while trying to build up his database. He was trying to remember the peirodic table alphabetically. Unforcanetly for him, he was stuck on idoum lost it afterwards. Then, a very loud shierk from downstairs made everyone shut up at the same time. Teachers and staff began running everywhere and Sherlock decided to check out what was going on.

It wasn't easy to slip in amoung teachers like he could students, but he had memorized the building and knew it well enough to navigate it half-asleep. Soon, he at the indoor pool, slightly confused. What could've happened?

He scanned through any event that would've caused a crowd to gather at the pool. Of course, there was that swimming competition today. He knew kids from different countries were coming to have a contest. Apparently something had happened, because police were there, pulling a boy out of the water.

It didn't take someone with Sherlock's mind to realize he was dead. However, something was severally wrong with this whole thing. A professional swimmer, even a young one, doesn't suddenly drown in an indoor pool where lifeguards are closely watching. Sherlock knew that the police weren't going to let him anywhere near the body, but he might be able to beat them to the boy's locker.

He ran up to one of the adults and tugged on the sleeve.

"Excuse me," he said. "That boy they're pulling out of the water, who is he?"

"Cole Powers, shouldn't you be with your class?"

Sherlock ignored them and ran into the locker rooms, weaving through the mass of students and teachers alike. It took only a quick check to find Cole's locker. He opened it and shifted through his clothes... or most of them.

He couldn't find the boy's shoes.

Shirt, jacket, pants, socks, underwear and hat all were there, but no shoes. He ran a careful eye over everything that _was_ there, and found nothing out of the ordinary for a kid. Frustrated, he put everything back in the locker and ran back to the police, and talked to one of the patrolmen setting up a boarder.

"Step back son," said the policeman.

"Something's wrong!" Sherlock said urgently. "The boy, Cole. He shouldn't have drown like that, and his shoes are missing!"

The officer raised an eyebrow at him.

"You think he drown because someone stole his shoes. Sorry kid, but leave the police work to us."

"Impossible man!"

Irritating. Sherlock argued with getting his brother to talk to the man, but why would he? After all, he'd be busy with his college finals, impressing father. Throughly irritated, Sherlock decided he could do nothing more that wouldn't get him in real trouble, and went back to memorizing the periodic table until they allowed the students to go home early.


End file.
